Cold Upholstery
by Arianna555
Summary: He wasn't supposed to be more than charity. He was only supposed to exist. RJ


**Cold Upholstery**

**Disclaimer:** This is essentially all I own… ((points to blank piece of paper))

**A/N:** I'd love to know what you think, as always. (One shot.)

To Elise, for the fabulous beta and read-over. To Deh, who put up with my "I love weird ideas!" And to Christie, because she understands what I say (when it makes sense). ;)

o-o-o

She wanted to know what it was like.

I'm just a little worried, she'd say over the phone to this person who'd had her dream job. I'm terrified, she'd try to state casually. What was your interview like?

She'd be nervous, but she'd hide it. She'd fake laughs, animated and cheerful, but when he crept by the room he could see her face as she did so, and that was always enough to send him away to his space in the basement.

(She'd apologized for it a million times. There was simply no other room.)

Back when he'd moved in, she'd bought a space heater. It broke, by itself: neither of them could have afforded getting it fixed.

She refused to believe it when he'd tell her heat actually sank. Her hand trembled when he asked for a cup of hot coffee. He grew tired of her apologies.

She hadn't kissed anyone in years. I'm out of practice, she'd tell him absently over a bowl of potato chips. She'd pick one up, bent and burnt into some shape, and hold it toward him, showing it off, her mouth twisting into an inverted smile.

How do you know, he would reply. She hated it when he did that, when he responded to her. He was not supposed to be there, he was only supposed to exist.

I just do.

o-

She came home from work with visible lines under her eyes. You okay? he asked, more a statement than a question. It was after much deliberation, much careful thought. He couldn't risk irritating her; she had too much sway in his future.

He lived a life in which his sole support was his talent for balance. It wore away but he stayed steady, leaning on things that didn't exist.

He liked it that way, he liked to pretend.

Okay, she answered.

She went to her room without a word.

He waited for awhile; returned to his own, threw himself on the mattress. (It was real, real and flat on the ground.) He lay back on the pillow and stared at the walls, noting the discolored squares where her pictures used to be. He heard the rush of water through the pipes; it passed right by his ear, below the wall, underneath the little insulation.

He returned upstairs. His turn again to cook for two; they had no visitors, they never did. She appeared in the archway, the chipped paint retreating behind her glory. Her hair was wet and stringy; face flushed, black dress on, thin straps gently resting on her pale shoulders. He thought of slipping his hand beneath one and seeing how she would react. He imagined her skin soft and inviting, utterly fragile. He thought the dress had sparkles but he couldn't tell.

She sat down.

Who are you waiting for?

They had a casual means of conversation. Perhaps they would indeed have a visitor this time.

She told him, told him why she'd done all this tonight. Someone's coming… she said. She seemed anxious, telling him this. She had a strange look on her face: excited, nervous and disgusted all at once. He didn't ask.

She wanted to know, was this okay, because it wasn't a date. She wanted to let him know, it would have been a day it was her turn, but this guy wasn't one for ramen noodles.

(Jess wasn't either. But he wouldn't tell her that.)

I wouldn't invite someone over so you could cook for him, you know that, right?

I know.

He didn't care, though.

She wanted to do the right thing by him; she didn't seem to realize that there was no longer any right. She could not tell that he did not mind (_not_ mind!) his being banished to the basement. He did mind her worrying that she had upset him. That she had been unfair to him, that she had the capacity to be unfair to him.

She wanted him to know, if he didn't want to do this, it was absolutely fine. She said, it felt good getting all dressed up like this, for once, but she wouldn't have, it was just that this guy wasn't one for jeans.

Okay.

It's really okay?

You set the table, I'll get the drinks.

She smiled.

o-

He could tell her visitor found it weird that he was there.

He was used to this, but normally it was only he who thought so.

Rory explained hastily in the doorway. This isn't permanent, not at all; come on in. _We're just friends _is what she meant. The visitor tilted his head upward to inspect the paint job, the sparse decorations.

It's not big, she said, trying faithfully to play hostess, but it's wa— She stopped, a self-conscious smile on her face. A draft wafted a strand of hair behind her ear. But it's nice, she finished.

She didn't think this guy would approve of the truth of this house and what was within it. Wouldn't approve of them; of him, specifically: this soon-to-be-her-boss was also not one for anything resembling charity. Jess had heard Rory complain about this same guy, over the telephone to an unknown friend. How he acted like an inconsiderate misogynist. She had been pissed off.

He, well, he had punched the floor in an unusual burst of frustration, hearing this—he defended Jacob's Georgette, but this did not matter. He hadn't known the sound would carry like it did. She'd hung up hurriedly and had come downstairs to see if he was okay.

(He had been.)

Now, now she had dressed up, for _him_. For this guy. Jess was curious to see how this would go.

Only faintly, subtly curious.

o-

Possibly, he thought, he should consider being a chef.

It provided a likely and easily usable excuse for escaping conversations; an equally easy opportunity for eavesdropping.

Excuse me, he imagined himself saying, I'll leave you to go make the food. The sentence had a strange sound, escaping his lips in a whisper.

There was nothing to eavesdrop on here, besides Rory, but he found himself grateful for the escape. He had never seen her quite so artificial. It was a painful thing to watch, a delicate girl's transformation into someone real. Perhaps this was the person she was when he wasn't around. Perhaps after everything, this was her. He wondered, turning the dial of the oven. He smelled smoke and moved the over-boiling potatoes.

She appeared in the doorway, glowing falsely. Her mouth shone with more than lip gloss; he didn't focus on it.

I smelled something burning? Her nervousness was back. She moved her hands carefully, gesticulating but unsure.

All fine, he replied shortly.

She moved toward him. She was awkward on her heels still, stilettos almost, much too high for her in his opinion. She was his height, now, but he looked up to her, not from respect but out of necessity.

Thank you, she said softly. I'm sorry for this.

Don't be.

No, Jess, I'm sorry. It wasn't supposed to be this way.

How could she say she didn't mean only this, this night, but she meant all of it. How could she say, what she was sorry for… it included not asking him to come to her room when she watched a midnight pay-per-view. It included not pretending to make waffles for the two of them so he would make his heavenly pancakes and smirk at her. (They didn't have breakfast together most days, anyway.)

He considered telling her she should go back to the couch. It's rude to keep a guest waiting, he wanted to tell her, but instead he let her stay. He bent down to lift the tray out of the oven, catching his thumb on the bright red metal.

Fuck.

He stuck his thumb in his mouth, daring her to make a comment about cleanliness. She said nothing.

Wasn't supposed to be what? he asked.

o-

Dinner was nearly silent.

He didn't want to be at the table, but Rory said come on, and then dammit he couldn't say no.

He wanted to ruin this for her, but he wouldn't want to do that really. He depended on her…

He depended on her for a place to live.

She trusted him to be nothing more than an onlooker. He reluctantly accepted her trust. He was a better cook; she was more responsible.

She paid the bills.

She was considerate enough to let him stay, let him hide out in her basement, hidden by thin walls, tilting bookshelves, drafty windows. The windows were the same throughout the tiny house; her own bookshelves tilted as much as the ones that were temporarily his.

But still, they tilted, repeatedly threatening to tip over and spill what was left of his life over the carpet he kept forgetting to vacuum.

He had no idea how she'd ever afforded this in the first place. Frankly, he did not care.

He was right about this visitor disapproving and he was right in his prediction of silent looks that would be shot his way. He was right about this official businessman looking out of place inside their—her—crumbling house, wearing an expensive starched suit he had not washed by himself. He was right in thinking that Rory's perfume would make him feel slightly sick.

She, however, she was wrong about this not being a date. It did not need to be mutual, this thought, to make it true. He caught her employer's eyes traveling up and down her body, but he never thought about breaking the gaze. He cut his chicken into small pieces and he ate them with his fork. He spotted a blister on his burnt thumb and did not wince.

She sat at the head of the table. She was cheerful, insouciant towards everything.

She was Daisy, Gatsby was missing.

o-

She giggled and sipped after-dinner wine. She poured this man something stronger, something Jess had not known they had.

He scraped hollandaise sauce off ceramic plates and did not think about how ridiculous it all was.

He was Etienne, she was Catherine, this strange man was called Chaval.

o-

The door clicked shut and she curled up with a book. Her hair still in delicate ringlets, her lipstick perfect and red. Her smile was unusual, her laugh entirely unreal when it cascaded toward the kitchen, pealing like a dinner bell.

What did you think?

He didn't hear her.

What did you think? she repeated, more loudly.

He did not know what to answer; he stayed quiet and she understood. She followed him into the kitchen again and watched the detergent roughen his hands. Her soft white skin brushed a dirty plate and he would not look her in the eye.

You shouldn't do this, she said. She said, I thought we agreed, you would cook, I would wash.

Agreements aren't always kept, he told her, uncaring.

No.

She dried the dishes as he handed them to her; he felt ridiculous. They both stayed.

o-

He'd agreed he would not smoke.

The house still smelled new; the scent of leather (a present from the elder Gilmores) drifted as far as the tiny foyer. It was comparable to the smell of a new car, upholstery and all. Everything made sense: from the vintage chair to the thin carpeting, this life was entirely upholstered, this life of theirs.

He leaned against the bare wall of his basement room and felt cold creep up his back. His home, ten feet by twelve, filled with the heady smell of tobacco and unwashed clothing. He coughed and took a long drag. She smelled it, he knew. He came upstairs.

She took the cigarette from his hand and stubbed it out on her employer's drying plate.

The potatoes were good, she said.

Right time. He shrugged.

They were good, she said again.

Good.

o-

He sat on the sofa beside her, without a book. She noticed that he didn't have one.

She reached up and took the barrette out of her hair. The curls fell down her shoulders, hiding the straps he had watched so carefully earlier. He touched her knee by accident and she decided she didn't mind.

It wasn't supposed to be like what? he said. He was still affronted by her falsity, but somehow gratified that he still knew her. He knew who she was. He knew the movies she watched. He never saw them himself, but most of them he had seen before, and sometimes knowing was enough.

She shrugged.

Like any of this, she replied. Like any of this. She was sorry. He was sorrier. He would never tell her that.

She let him know, she hadn't meant this night to be this way. He wondered how else it could have been.

It wasn't as expected? he asked her sardonically.

Not at all, she admitted. She told him, she'd expected to be kissed tonight.

He wanted to know when she'd begun expecting this. He did not ask.

She was Roxane Coss, an exquisite someone he did not truly yet know. He was Mr. Hosokawa, a man who could not speak her language, a man secretly wishing he could.

o-

Did you expect it to be like this? She wanted him to tell her.

Yes, he said.

You did? She was surprised.

'Course.

o-

It's warmer than I thought, she admitted softly. He buried his lips in her hair. Her perfume had become sweeter now.

She'd kicked off her shoes. They'd left indents in his carpet. The mattress was softer than it looked, flat on the floor; the shelves tilted but they were stable. It didn't matter how short her dress was. His body glinted with light from the sparkles that had in fact been on the dress, mementos of her.

It was warm, there on the basement floor. She was kissed that night.

Her mascara smeared, her hair tangled and half straightened now, her smile genuine.

He was there. He was not charity.

So was she.

(In their house.)


End file.
